Madame Mirza and the spirits of Muscat

Madame Mirza and the Spirits of Muscat  

It was the last thing I expected at a Durga Puja pandal in Pashchim Vihar,Delhi—a lady in one corner, draped in velvet, doing tarot readings between stalls selling bhog and jalebis. The sight jolted a memory loose, carrying me back to a faraway place: Muscat, Oman.  

Years ago, while working on a project at Hubara, my colleague Sethu—who had a mischievous streak wider than the Gulf itself—had insisted on showing me “a secret of Muscat.” We left the polished highways and malls and wandered into a narrow sunlit lane that smelled of cardamom, diesel, and old paper. Eventually, we arrived at a dimly lit room tucked behind a half-closed wooden door.  

Inside was a world far removed from Muscat’s shining exteriors. The chamber was lit by lanterns and candles, their shadows crawling on shelves stacked with strange objects: strings of beads, old maps, brass bowls, dried herbs. At the center sat a woman with sharp eyes and silver bangles that seemed to jingle in tune with her thoughts.  

The moment I stepped in, she tilted her head and said, “Bengali, right?”  

I froze. “Yes… how did—”  

Before I finished, Sethu gave me a villainous grin. “She knows everything. Next she will predict what you had for breakfast.”  

The woman smirked. “Banana skipped. Aloo paratha too oily.”  

My jaw nearly hit the floor. “WHAT?!”  

Sethu slapped his thigh and burst out laughing. “I told you, my friend—she is *dangerously accurate*.”  

I was trembling between awe and suspicion when Sethu whispered in my ear, “Don’t worry. She’s not actually a psychic. She’s a historian from Dhaka, married to a sheikh. Tarot is her… side hobby.”  

The woman leaned back, amused at my expression. “History, tarot, spirit world—what is the difference? Everything is about interpreting traces of the past.”  

She picked up a crystal ball, squinted into it with mock solemnity, and announced, “Sometimes I help people find lost things—keys, passports, goats…”  

“Goats?” I asked.  

“Yes,” she replied with grave seriousness. “Goats wander, souls wander—it’s the same business.”  

Sethu was shaking with laughter. “Last month she helped old Karim find his missing water pump!”  

The woman held up one finger. “Correction: an old spirit with bad knees told me the pump was behind the chicken coop.”  

I chuckled nervously. “That doesn’t sound like a ghost. That sounds like a nosy neighbor.”  

Her eyes glimmered. “Maybe there’s no difference between the two. Both gossip, both refuse to leave you in peace.”  

That line sent Sethu into such hysterics that tears rolled down his cheeks.  

Trying to compose myself, I leaned forward. “But tell me honestly, Madame Mirza. Do you actually believe in this… spirit communication?”  

She shrugged with the calm of someone ordering tea. “Belief is for priests and politicians. I only provide stories and comfort. Most people don’t want ‘truth.’ Truth is boring. They want mystery—and a little fun.”  

Sethu patted my shoulder, whispering theatrically, “See? She’s not a fortune-teller. She’s a philosopher disguised as a card-dealer.”  

The woman began shuffling her deck, casually flicking cards onto the table. “You, mister. You are a traveler. Not careful enough. You will one day leave your socks in a hotel bathroom. Spirits of lost laundry are vindictive—you will never find their pair.”  

Sethu nearly toppled from his chair clutching his stomach in laughter. I sat stunned, trying not to imagine vengeful poltergeists made of mismatched socks.  

The evening passed in riddles, jokes, half-truths, and laughter. When we finally stepped back into Muscat’s neon-lit streets, I couldn’t decide whether I’d met a scholar, a trickster, or a genuine mystic.  

Years later, watching the tarot reader at the pandal shuffle her glittering cards under Durga’s gaze, I had to smile. For a fleeting moment, I thought I saw Madame Mirza’s twinkling eyes again—half-mocking, half-wise—whispering that history, mystery, and humor are often all the same story.  

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Echoes of Kanishka

The Agra Conspiracy  

A Budha statue of Kushan Era

I had gone  to Delhi from Kolkata for the Pujas when I ran into **Sam Singh**, just back from Agra. He looked restless, full of a story he couldn’t wait to share. Over cups of chai in my flat, he leaned forward and said, almost in a whisper,  

*“You won’t believe what I just saw down there. It started at Meena Bazaar…”*  

Sam Singh’s Account  

Agra’s Meena Bazaar is something else—you feel like every stall is a doorway into another century. Brass lamps polished to perfection, antique wooden toys, Mughal-style miniatures. I’m not really an art man, but I was staring at one shop when I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Schmidt, the German couple staying in my hotel.  

They looked excited. Turned out they were chasing something rare: a *Magadh style* painting influenced by the **Kushan dynasty**. I knew a little about it. The Kushans were a Central Asian people who swept into India around the 1st century CE. At their peak, they ruled from Afghanistan into northern India, even brushing shoulders with the Roman and Chinese worlds. What made them special wasn’t just war—it was what they built. Their empire was a bridge across civilizations, thanks to the Silk Road.  

And their art… ah, that was extraordinary. In Mathura, under their patronage, the Buddha came alive for the first time in human form: broad-shouldered, smiling, robes flowing. Their paintings had clean lines, rich pigments, influenced by both Greek naturalism and Indian spirituality. Later, when the Mughals came, painters in Mathura revived that Kushan-inspired aesthetic, blending it with Persian touches. That was the famous *Magadh school of painting*—and that’s what the Schmidts were after.  

That same day they found one. Bought it for two lakhs from a dealer. But when I saw them that evening at the hotel lounge, they were pale. The painting was gone—stolen from their room.  

We rushed to reception, checked the CCTV. And there he was—the very dealer, walking out of the hotel, painting under his arm. But here’s the twist: how had he gotten inside their locked room? Swipe-card access only.  

That night, I stayed in the lobby. Around midnight, I spotted the hotel IT boy—thin, nervous—picking up a fresh swipe card. I followed. On the phone, I heard him mutter, *“I’m going to the Frenchman’s room… he bought the ashtadhatu Krishna, 14th century. Card’s ready.”*  

And boom—it all fit together. Duplicate cards, inside job. The Schmidts weren’t the only targets.  

I tailed him out into the alleys of Agra. He went straight to a broken-down warehouse by the Yamuna ghat. Inside, waiting for him, was **Salim**, the art dealer. And in Salim’s hands? The stolen Magadh painting.  

I tried to stay hidden, but one wrong step on gravel gave me away. Salim’s scarred face swung toward me. Knife in hand, he lunged. What followed was chaos—I sprinted through alleys full of rickshaws, startled dogs, sacks of turmeric spilling gold dust into the air, with Salim hot on my heels like a hawk.  

At the riverside, I thought I was cornered—but that’s when the police, tipped off earlier by me, swooped in sirens blazing. Officers tackled Salim mid-run, his knife skittering across the stones. The IT boy froze, then broke down crying.  

When the police unrolled the painting, there it was—the calm face of a Bodhisattva, rendered in that ancient Kushan style: simple, powerful lines, meditative eyes, pigments still alive after centuries.  

The racket tumbled quickly. The IT boy confessed to forging cards. The receptionist had been feeding guest details. Salim had been stealing back items he “sold” and passing them off to smugglers. The Frenchman was saved from losing his Krishna idol, and the Schmidts got their painting back.  

Henrietta touched it gently, whispering, *“It feels like time itself survived just to reach us.”*  

And in that moment, my mind went back to the Kushans. To Kanishka, the emperor who built massive stupas, hosted the Buddhist council, and made sure Mathura’s art reached far beyond India. Without them, Buddhism’s imagery might never have traveled across Asia, inspiring caves in Afghanistan, China, even Japan. They were nomads once—but they became patrons of eternal art.  

Funny, isn’t it? Centuries later, I’m there in Agra, chasing thieves through lanes, still trying to protect the same art they once saved. History doesn’t die—it just changes its thieves.  

**

The Skyline of Ujjain

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🌑 The Skyfire of Ujjain

Chapter One: When Rahu Devoured the Sun

It was the early 6th century CE, in the ancient city of Ujjain, when whispers of the heavens stirred the people. Word had spread through the bazaars that Rahu, the headless demon, would rise that day to devour the sun. Priests in saffron robes sprinkled holy water on the temple steps, urging the people to gather with drums and conch shells.

Among the crowd stood four young companions — Durya, Vihan, Arav, and Saanvi. They had slipped away from their homes, eager not only for the spectacle but also for the whispered promise of something greater: the prediction of Aryananda, the young astronomer of Nalanda.

“Look at them,” Vihan chuckled, nodding toward a group of elders already chanting hymns. “They truly believe Rahu stretches his jaws to swallow the sun.”

Durya frowned. “Our parents believe it too. My mother would not let me eat this morning — she says food becomes poisoned when the demon is out.”

Arav smirked. “If Rahu can eat the sun, why does he spit it out again? Why not swallow it whole and be done?”

Saanvi, her eyes bright, whispered, “Aryananda says it is not Rahu at all, only the moon passing before the sun. He even wrote the time on his palm for me yesterday — he said the darkening will begin just after the temple bell of midday.”

The air grew heavy. Priests raised their voices, urging devotion.

“People of Ujjain! Do not fear the darkness. Strike your drums, beat your vessels! Drive away Rahu with the thunder of your faith.”

The temple bell rang. A hush fell. The first bite of shadow crept across the blazing sun.

“It is happening!” Saanvi gasped. “At the very moment he said!”

The crowd broke into cries, the priests into louder chants. Drums thundered, cymbals clashed. Yet the four friends stood still, watching in awe as day turned to twilight, birds flew confused, and a ring of fire crowned the darkened sun.

Vihan whispered, “This is no demon’s bite. It is a shadow.”

Durya’s voice trembled. “If Aryananda is right, then our parents are wrong. What will they say?”

Saanvi’s gaze never left the sky. “They will say what they wish. But we saw the truth today.”

The eclipse passed. The sun blazed again, and the priests proclaimed triumph:

“Your devotion has defeated Rahu!”

The crowd cheered, but the four exchanged knowing glances. A seed of doubt had been planted.

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Some Years Later

Another eclipse was foretold. Aryananda once again gave his calculation, and once again the heavens obeyed his numbers.

Durya murmured, “It cannot be chance.”

Arav grinned. “Faith alone cannot time the heavens.”

Saanvi whispered, “Truth shines, even when eclipsed.”

And Vihan said softly, “Perhaps one day the people will listen.”

The priests scowled, but the youth of Ujjain were beginning to turn their eyes to the stars with new wonder and quiet courage.

-

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Footnote:

This story is set in the 5th century CE, during the time of Aryabhata (476–550 CE), one of India’s greatest mathematician-astronomers. While the characters are fictional, it is likely Aryabhata faced both reverence and resistance for his rational postulations, which often contradicted prevailing mythological beliefs. His key contributions include:

Heliocentric hints: Proposed that the Earth rotates on its axis, causing day and night.

Eclipses explained: Stated that lunar and solar eclipses occur due to the shadows of Earth and Moon, not mythological demons like Rahu and Ketu.

Pi (π): Calculated π ≈ 3.1416 with remarkable accuracy.

Algebra & trigonometry: Introduced concepts of sine (jya) and cosine (kojya), used in astronomy.

Zero & place value: Advanced the Indian number system that became the foundation of modern mathematics.

Planetary models: Gave methods to predict planetary positions with surprising precision for his time.

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Sidhu, the Bengali Robot

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Sidhu, the Bengali Jules

The chicken cutlet at DKS was hot, crisp, and so mustardy that my nose felt like Netaji had just marched through it. That’s when Samaranand dragged in a young man whose hair looked like it had permanently taken part in a College Street rally.

“Meet Dr. Bhaumik,” he announced proudly, “professor of Robotics at Jadavpur.”

“Robotics? In Jadavpur?” I almost choked. “I thought you people only produced poets and protest marches. Now robots too?”

Bhaumik smiled, his hair still rioting.

“Sir, we’ve made a robot that can blink, smile, and nod when you talk.”

“Wah!” I clapped. “So, basically, you’ve invented the perfect Bengali husband.”

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The Bengali Frankenstein Lab

Between watery coffee and Samaranand’s smug face, I learned the truth. They had stitched together man-sized robots:

Plastic skin from a doll-maker in Howrah,

Amazon-ordered motors (free delivery, mind you),

Coimbatore micro-engineering,

Korean lithium-ion cells (because Indian batteries faint after two torchlight sessions).

“They even look human,” Bhaumik said proudly. “We wrapped the machinery inside mannequins.”

“Next you’ll tell me they complain about fish prices in Gariahat,” I muttered.

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Enter Talukdar and Sidhu

Their prototype was gifted to lonely Talukdar, a widower with a son in America who believed that one WhatsApp call a month was enough to prove devotion.

At first, Talukdar treated Sidhu—that’s what he named the robot—like a toy car, driving it around with a remote. But slowly, Sidhu became a companion.

Mornings, Talukdar would dress him in shorts and T-shirt.

“Exercise korte hobe, Sidhu. Health is wealth,” he declared, patting his metal shoulder.

By evening, Sidhu wore a kurta.

“Adda without kurta is like macher jhol without mustard.”

At night, Talukdar lovingly put him in a sleeping dress and placed him beside the bed. If he woke up at 2 a.m., he would whisper:

“Sidhu, ekhono ache to?”

Sidhu’s eyelids blinked twice. Comforted, Talukdar drifted back to sleep.

The bond grew. Sidhu didn’t just listen, he looked present—a silent, smiling shadow in Talukdar’s house. One day, Talukdar even offered him luchi at the dining table. By some mechanical twitch, Sidhu raised a guava to his mouth.

“Dekho, he’s eating!” Talukdar shouted proudly.

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Banerjee Joins the Club

Banerjee, Talukdar’s friend, had a wife whose daily quarrels could defeat Arnab Goswami in a shouting match. When he discovered Sidhu, his jaw dropped.

“Sidhu, bol to, am I wrong, or is my wife a hurricane in a sari?”

Sidhu blinked. Nodded.

Banerjee gasped. “You understand me better than anyone!”

From then on, he visited morning and evening, pouring his heart out. Sidhu blinked, Sidhu nodded—marriage counseling without fees.

The housing society buzzed.

“Talukdar aar Banerjee ekdom alokito hoye gache! Is it yoga? Baba from Burdwan? Or foreign multivitamin?”

Nobody guessed it was a plastic-faced robot in a lungi.

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Samaranand’s Triumph

Meanwhile, Samaranand strutted like a Bengali Edison.

“See? Loneliness cured! Jules had an alien, Bengal has Sidhu.”

Dr. Bhaumik nodded, hair still defying gravity. “Robotics with Rabindrasangeet touch.”

Then they turned to me.

“Royda, apni-o ekta nebey?”

I laughed so hard my tea spilled.

“Are you mad? I already have Sikka, Jaggi, Paul to talk nonsense with. If I bring Sidhu home, my wife will say—‘Good, now sell your friends and buy another robot.’ Then what will happen to our adda? Robots can nod, but can they argue Mohun Bagan vs East Bengal?”

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The Afterthought

That night, though, I couldn’t help thinking. If Sidhu had existed when my father was alive, he would’ve loved it—someone to listen for hours, nodding, blinking, smiling, never contradicting.

Maybe loneliness doesn’t always need aliens like in Ben Kingsley’s Jules. Sometimes all it takes is a plastic-faced listener in a kurta who blinks on time.

And in Bengal, that’s rarer than hilsa in December.

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Ghosts by the Hoogly :A Widows Rebellion

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Ghosts by the Hooghly: A Widow’s Rebellion

In the dim glow of oil lamps and the faint moonlight filtering through the banyan trees of 19th-century Bengal, when electricity was but a distant dream and villages slumbered under the weight of ancient customs, winds of change whispered faintly. It was the age of Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar, the tireless reformer of Bengal, who dared to challenge the ironclad traditions that bound society.

With scholarly fervor, he pored over scriptures in his modest home, presenting arguments before courts and progressive thinkers.

“These young girls,” he declared, “widowed before they even knew womanhood, deserve life, not exile.”

Yet the orthodox ridiculed him mercilessly. Whispers in bazaars called him mad, pamphlets caricatured him as a destroyer of dharma. Before him, Raja Rammohan Roy had slain the demon of Sati, but Vidyasagar’s war—against child marriage, enforced widowhood, and the rampant polygamy of lecherous old men across castes—was an even steeper hill.

Old men, swollen with wealth and lust, traveled village to village in search of brides barely ten or eleven. Families, crippled by poverty, surrendered their daughters for dowry’s cruel exchange. And when these aged husbands perished, the child-brides were cast out—shorn of hair, draped in white, condemned to lifelong mourning in ashrams or the ghats of Kashi.

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The Secret Sisterhood

Far from Calcutta’s courts, on the banks of the Hooghly, rebellion brewed among these forsaken souls. A band of young widows—Sita, Lakshmi, Radha, and others, none above twenty—met in secret at the village pond during ritual baths. Their whispers were carried on the ripples of water.

“No more,” hissed Sita, her eyes burning beneath her veil. “These old vultures feast on our lives. Let them taste fear.”

Their sympathetic brothers—silent allies ashamed of society’s cruelties—hid nearby, ready with sticks and courage. While Vidyasagar waged his battle with pen and petition, here, in the shadows, justice would take a ghostly form.

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The Haunted Path

One sultry evening, as dusk bled into night, Hari Babu, a notorious old groom of sixty-five, trudged toward a poor farmer’s home. His belly jiggled, his teeth were red with paan, and his thoughts gleamed with greed: gold bangles, a corner of land, another trembling child-bride.

But the path wound past the misty village pond. And from its reeds emerged figures in tattered white saris, their faces smeared with ash, hair wild and unbound.

“Harrrriiii…” they wailed, voices hollow as the wind. “You left us to rot… we have returned!”

Hari froze. His mind reeled—ghosts! Ghosts of the young wives he had taken, abandoned, buried in shame.

Lakshmi, drenched in pond water, stretched her arms like a spirit risen from death. The others swayed and shrieked, their howls mixing grief with laughter.

Hari shrieked, dropping his betel pouch. “The widows! My brides returned from the pyres!” He bolted, stumbling through mud, his dhoti unraveling as he howled for help.

From the bushes, the brothers leapt, striking harmless blows with reeds to deepen his terror. Sita’s voice rose above the chaos:

“Begone, you leech! No child will bear your chain again!”

Hari, humiliated and terrified, tumbled into a ditch, scrambled out filthy and trembling, and fled the village, swearing never to return.

By dawn, word spread that the pond was haunted by widows’ spirits. Superstition became a shield, and the predatory elders kept away.

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The Greater Battle

While in villages, laughter cloaked as haunting chased away predators, Vidyasagar’s real war raged on. He endured ridicule, slander, and threats, but his resolve did not waver.

Finally, in 1856, his relentless advocacy bore fruit:

The Hindu Widows’ Remarriage Act was passed—granting widows the right to remarry, to reclaim dignity and life.

In that moment, the voices of countless widows, whether wailing at ponds or sighing in ashrams, found a champion.

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Epilogue

By the Hooghly, the widows’ secret sisterhood dissolved back into the rhythm of village life. But sometimes, late at night, travelers swore they still heard laughter—half grief, half triumph—echoing over the misty pond.

And in Calcutta, Vidyasagar, “the ocean of compassion,” pressed forward, knowing each battle won was only the beginning.

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The Utopian Case of Tudu Hembram

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Rethinking Talent Retention: The Utopian Case of Tudu Hembram

In the remote district of Purulia, among the Santhal tribe, I once met a boy named Tudu Hembram. I was introduced to him at Bhalopahar by the late philanthropist Kamal Chakraborty. At that time, he had just finished school and was repairing computers at a local shop. Yet, it was clear his mind was sharper than the hardware he worked on—his interest lay in the abstract beauty of software and mathematics.

Tudu had submitted some of his calculations online, and his ingenuity soon attracted the attention of a Bangalore startup. That is where his story takes an unusual turn, and one that made me reflect deeply.

Unlike most young professionals who chase salaries, savings, and possessions, Tudu followed a different model of existence. He did not draw a salary in the conventional sense. Instead, the company ensured that his family in Purulia was looked after—sending them monthly expenses and arranging medical support whenever needed. His personal requirements—whether food, clothing, or toiletries—were fulfilled through a custom app designed just for him, where he could simply click for his needs. He lived in a modest studio apartment equipped with cutting-edge computers, free from financial anxieties, with his only wealth being his knowledge.

This freedom allowed Tudu to focus entirely on his passion: finding economic ways to use AI. While most engineers are busy advancing AI systems, his goal was to democratize technology, creating simple solutions for small businesses—chatbots for individuals, smart tools for shopkeepers, and even the dream of one day bringing his own village “into the cloud” when satellite internet becomes universally available.

Despite his ascetic lifestyle, Tudu maintained a balance between mind and body, running 10 kilometers each morning to keep fit. His was a life of discipline, simplicity, and purpose.

History reminds us that this is not a new idea. Emperor Akbar maintained his famed Navaratnas—nine jewels of talent—at state expense, among them the legendary Tansen, whose music still echoes through centuries, and Birbal, whose wit and wisdom guided the emperor. Across civilizations, rulers understood that genius blooms only when freed from material burdens.

In ancient Greece, Plato’s Academy and later Aristotle’s Lyceum were supported by patrons who ensured philosophers could devote themselves to thought rather than livelihood. In Renaissance Italy, the Medici family sustained a galaxy of talents—Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo, Galileo—by providing them with security, resources, and freedom from financial anxieties. Their patronage birthed some of humanity’s greatest art, science, and philosophy.

The modern world, however, runs on different aspirations. The symbols of success today are big cars, larger houses, and foreign holidays. For a talented individual, the temptation to trade passion for possessions is ever-present. This eternal conflict between the needs of the body and the aspirations of the mind has never disappeared. To resist worldly goods and stick to one’s calling requires unusual inner strength—and equally unusual external support.

What struck me most in Tudu’s case was the company’s unconventional way of retaining him. By removing the burden of salary negotiations, financial planning, and family obligations, they gave him what every true thinker craves—freedom from worry. Many bright minds abandon high-pressure jobs to care for families or escape stress. This model seemed to offer a new path: one where the company assumes responsibility for life’s necessities, while the individual devotes himself fully to creation and problem-solving.

It reminded me of Japan, where young people increasingly choose a solitary lifestyle, avoiding the noise of society, yet deliver extraordinary results in their fields. Tudu’s life felt like an Indian echo of that philosophy: minimalism, focus, and brilliance.

The question that lingers is profound: Could this be the future of work? Instead of higher paychecks and perks, perhaps the real key to nurturing genius is designing ecosystems of trust, care, and freedom.

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Afterthought: This story is a utopian thought experiment. No such company exists today—but perhaps it is an idea whose time will come.

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Building Bridges Beyond the Table: Lessons on Customer Relationship Management

Customer relationship is not just about contracts, negotiations, and project deadlines. It is about building trust, respect, and sometimes even friendships that last a lifetime. During my long career in Indian Oil Corporation, BHEL, and later in the private sector with Techno Electric Engineering, I experienced firsthand how cultivating deep personal bonds with customers and stakeholders can help overcome the most complex challenges.

In my view, customer relationships are not built in boardrooms or through formal agreements alone. They are forged on the ground, in moments of crisis, in the willingness to go beyond one’s defined role, and in the shared determination to complete a project despite all odds. When both sides align themselves to the common goal of project completion, they transcend the narrow boundaries of “client” and “contractor” and begin to act as true partners.

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Early Lessons – Panipat (Haryana Electricity Board)

My journey with customer relationship at project sites began at the Panipat Thermal Power Station, where Mr. G. P. Sood, the Chief, became like a mentor to me. He openly admitted that his expertise lay in hydropower, not in thermal plants. This honesty created an instant bond of trust. I acted as his technical advisor and took decisions—even flouting certain BHEL restrictions—to ensure the plant ran during Haryana’s acute power shortage. That experience taught me that customer trust grows when you prioritize their problems over rigid rules.

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Brotherhood at Singrauli (NTPC)

At Singrauli Superthermal Power Station, I worked with Mr. S. K. Dasgupta, an old colleague from Barauni Refinery. Our shared background as shift-charge engineers of captive power plants created a brotherly bond. Together, NTPC and BHEL worked as a single pool of experts, commissioning five 200 MW units in just two years—a record then. The lesson was clear: when both sides stop drawing boundaries, teamwork achieves extraordinary results.

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Empowerment at Wanakbori (GEB)

At Wanakbori Thermal Power Station, I worked under the late Mr. K k Dharangdharia, who valued my frankness in admitting weaknesses. He gave me freedom to plan erection and commissioning. GEB contractors even sought my advice directly. This empowerment led us to synchronize to full load within just 24 hours, a record that brought rewards from GEB. The takeaway: empowerment and mutual respect are the cornerstones of customer confidence.

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Friendship at Vizag Steel Plant

At Vizag Steel Plant, Mr. P. K. Chakraborty, Chief Engineer, became a family friend. We worked shoulder to shoulder during crises, and his support was always strengthened by Mr. B. N. Rath, CMD, who stood by us. Beyond the workplace, badminton became a bridge—Mr. Rath, a passionate player, would often come to my flat to pick me up, and we would proceed together to the CISF court. His closeness with me helped smoothen many inter-departmental issues. This reminded me that personal friendship often paves the way for professional harmony.

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Memories from Indian Oil Days

This bond through sport reminded me of my Indian Oil days, when Mr. G. S. Harnal, DGM at Gauhati, would pick me up for badminton while I was still a trainee. Later in Barauni, our sporting bond gave me visibility and acceptance in the refinery community. A small reminder that shared passions outside the workplace create lasting professional goodwill.

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Farakka Superthermal (NTPC) – Overcoming Trade Union Challenges

My last site posting was at Farakka Superthermal Power Station (1991–1994), where Mr. G. S. Sohal, GM NTPC, was already a close friend from our Singrauli days. Bengal was turbulent then—frequent bandhs and aggressive trade unionism tested progress. But our coordination and trust enabled us to commission 2×500 MW successfully. The experience reinforced that personal bonds act as shock absorbers in volatile environments.

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ER HQ and Kathalgudi (NEEPCO)

Later, at BHEL Eastern Region HQ, my association with Mr. P K Kataki, Chairman of NEEPCO, proved invaluable. He was an IIT Kharagpur alumnus, like me, which gave us an instant connection. With his assurance, we tackled the Kathalgudi combined cycle project despite the looming ULFA menace. His back-channel talks even convinced insurgents that the project would ease Assam’s power woes. This was an extraordinary example of how leaders use trust and credibility to create security for execution teams.

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Beyond Retirement – Suzlon Experience

After retirement, I applied the same principle while working with Techno Electric Engineering. With Mr. P. P. Gupta the owner and Chairman of TEECL, I forged bonds with late Mr. Tulsi Tanti of Suzlon and his chief marketing strategist Mr. I. C. Mangal initially Mr Gupta forged personal equation with Mr.Tanti. Their personal trust in me helped us overcome hurdles during the execution of our 211 MW wind power project. Once again, it proved that relationship capital is often more valuable than financial capital.

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Rokhia Plant – Tripura

Another example was the Rokhia Plant in Tripura, where circumstances were especially difficult due to logistical challenges and local sensitivities. The cooperation between the state authorities, project leadership, and our team was not just contractual—it was built on trust and shared commitment. The Chief Engineer on the customer side worked with me almost like a partner, not as a counterpart across the table. Our alignment to the common goal of completing the project for Tripura’s power needs helped us overcome supply delays, terrain issues, and resource constraints. The experience showed once more that relationships built on mutual trust make even remote and complex projects achievable.

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The Core Principle

Across all these experiences, one dictum consistently stood out:

In each case, the ultimate goal of both sides was the same — successful completion of the project. Once this shared goal was recognized, both sides naturally aligned themselves to it, transcending the narrow confines of contractual terms.

Two persons may sit on opposite sides of the table, but a common bridge can always be built. That bridge—be it technical trust, personal integrity, or even a shared love for badminton—transforms a transactional relationship into a partnership. When that happens, obstacles turn into opportunities, and projects turn into milestones.